


Shakujou to Hiraikotsu

by ScribeFigaro



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeFigaro/pseuds/ScribeFigaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Miroku/Sango shorts, mostly NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Looking at the Stars

**Looking at the Stars**

**by Scribe Figaro**

_Some uncertain time before the final battle with Naraku._

Sometimes she thought the best part was the fear, the uncertainty. The children play their games and the adults play their games.

She once played the children's game with Houshi-sama. 

In that game, there is the flirting, the awkwardness, the arguments. The arguments where she fought him because she liked fighting him. The games where you grow close and fight it every step of the way.

Kagome and Inuyasha continue that game. They argue and accept and deny and argue again.

She plays the adult's game with Mirkou.

Kagome and Inuyasha are her friends, but they would not understand the adult games. They are not ready.

So they play their adult games away from the children.

Sometimes she worried that they would be seen.

Sometimes she worried her manner would have changed, that Houshi-sama would do something to provoke her to blush, and Kagome would read the difference between the previous blush of _this is the man I am going to marry_ and the current blush of _this is the man who I invite to come inside of me_ , and none could say what would happen upon that realization. 

Kagome came from another time; from her provocative appearance and somewhat prudish behavior Sango was led to believe she was so unaware of her own body that she was practically sexless. Perhaps this was due to her purity as a priestess. Or perhaps she comes from so far into the future that people don't even have sex anymore. An absurd notion, Sango would earlier have thought, but she had seen Kagome's machines which instantly produce perfect music, and instantly produced perfect paintings. Surely there were machines that instantly produced perfect people.

Miroku did not seem to worry, though at times he seemed to distance himself, his eyes no longer meeting hers, his mind removed slightly from the situation. Some perturbation in his senses drew him away in those instants, though nothing in his rhythm betrayed this. So far, each time found no intruder - enemy or friend - but such instants displayed the unstated understanding that so long as they played their games away from their allies in secret places, there was the possibility that their eyes would meet urgently with the message _It is coming_ \- a similar but different urgency than the more typical _I am coming_ and _You are coming_ and her ever-favorite _We are coming_ \- and they would fly apart like the halves of a cleaved nutshell, and he would stand urgent and battle-ready, muscles tensed, chest rising and falling with breath, _shakujou_ in hand, cock wet and hard with foreskin pulled tight back, no doubt numb as the wetness she shared with it abandoned its heat to the night air; and she would stand urgent and battle-ready, muscles tensed, chest rising and falling with breath, _Hiraikotsu_ in hand, nipples taut, vulva warm and suddenly empty, thighs damp and growing chill in the absence of his touch.

In such a case they would fight naked and, upon success, continue their games beside the _youkai_ corpse if necessary. Adult games may be postponed but should never be cancelled.

But this has never happened, and so far as interruption by their allies was concerned, she was less than worried due to the _youkai_ being on her side. Shippou was a child, and did not understand the adult games, but he was child enough that he did not feel he needed to understand the adult games. When Shippou had mentioned to her offhand about she and Miroku being like his parents, Miroku took care of the situation with care and expertise.

So Shippou knew the secret, and knowing it would be embarrassing for Sango if Kagome or Inuyasha tried to bother them while they were “looking at the stars,” and knowing how good it was to know a secret and to be responsible for keeping it, Sango could count on the _kitsune_ to warn them when Kagome had a fight with Inuyasha and sought her out to complain about it.

Kirara could similarly be counted upon, though her inability to start a loud argument with Inuyasha made it difficult to sound such a warning, and in addition, she seemed more inclined to wander than stand any sort of guard. It was bit demeaning, Sango had to admit.

Sometimes she worried about Inuyasha, that her pleasure would sound like a cry for help to his ears, that - despite bathing before returning to the group - the smell of Miroku remained on her thighs and between her thighs. She thought sometimes he knew and did not say, or that he had evidence but would not believe.

Sometimes she thought this was the best part, the fear, the uncertainty. It thrilled her to think of such things, the first things she thought about when she was with him, and when she returned to her mind she found he had already undressed her and she had already undressed him, and while refusing to let him remove her tongue from her mouth she pushed him down, and her hand found him hard and ready, and his hand found her wet and ready, and she positioned herself, and he - knowing not to interfere in this delicate ritual - placed his hands on her knees as she straddled and lowered herself, guiding him into alignment.

The proper way to sheathe a sword is to place the underside of the blade against the sheath, draw downward until the tip of the blade is directly above the opening, then angle the blade inward in one slow, deliberate movement.

But swords are oiled prior to sheathing them. Miroku is not. So there is a bit of awkwardness in the sheathing, giving him her wetness by slowly pushing him into her and back out, a little bit more each time. And swords have no protective coverings, while Miroku does, and as the foreskin is already partly pulled back by his erection, she completes that task with utmost care, pulling back the foreskin with her vaginal walls, exposing the sensitive head, and comforting it with the warmth and wetness he cannot provide himself.

And then they are _together_ , and his eyes betray the thrill, the privilege, the incredulous _I am inside Sango_ that he silently tells her as if each time was the first time, and she angles herself, and moves in broken elliptical motions until she finds the route by which her movement makes him place pressure on all the points she wants him placing pressure, and she finds her rhythm, and he holds her hips and moves with her, and she leans foreword, breasts hanging over him, erect nipples scratching his chest, and her mouth is over him, but they do not kiss - the effort of breathing is too much for that - and their lips touch off and on and they breath each others' breath.

And at some point the delicate rhythm shatters, light hunger becomes starvation, deliberate action becomes a frenzy, and her legs and hips tire and cannot maintain the same speed, nor reach the speed she now desires, and the instant she slows he rolls her along his arm, and now she is beneath him, and he is poised above her and inside her, and he makes deliberate, long strokes, and then faster, and faster, and faster still, and she spreads her legs wide to let him in as deep as he dares, and her hands grip his buttocks and she thinks _mine mine mine inside me inside me let me take you let me consume you_ and - often by surprise - the wave begins to crash, and she thinks _no not yet come inside me come inside me_ and most of the time she has presence of mind to urge him, the words she could never think herself saying but urgency drove the words from her lips, and she grips him tightly and with her mouth at his ear she hisses “Come inside me come inside me” and without fail he shudders and a guttural sound from the back of his throat, and _he is defeated_ and _he fills me_ and _he only releases his seed when I want him to_ and _I am the only one who can do this_ and _I trust him I want him I need him I love him_.

Exhaustion and sweat, and he twitches like a man who was dealt a death blow, and she tries not to laugh, and she holds him, and he holds her, and when he lies beside her she lays on her side and touches his face, and after a while they bathe - one at a time; when they bathe together it becomes necessary to bathe a second time - and if the night is warm he can usually convince her to lie naked with him, and they take turns studying the stars and studying each other.

She does not sleep this way - one risk too many for them, she thinks - and he watches her dress, and, now clothed, they rest and sometimes fall asleep and sometimes do not wake in time to return to camp. Sometimes Sango awakes, her head on Miroku's shoulder, and her eyes catch Kagome silhouetted against the rising sun, and she stands there, hands on her hips, and she cries out, fully scandalized:

“ _Did you two kiss!?”_  


Sometimes she thought this was the best part.


	2. Steel and Salt

**Steel and Salt  
by Scribe Figaro**

(A submission for **aamalie** 's Mirosanta exchange  
And gift-fic for **psyco_chick32** )

 

  
_Directly_ _after the incident of the Oni's Stomach, a_ _round Chapter 356 in the manga._  


There was the scent of ginger, strong and clean, the scent of rice and foods, medicines and balms. And there was music, haunting music.

The young woman watched over him, smiling, singing to herself, a sad song that rose and fell with her breath, and his heart beat its meter. There were words, though he could not discern them, as they lifted so softly from her lips, and very barely went any farther.

But he knew the theme. The woman there would protect him, and love him. She would stand watch over him when he was ill, and keep away the nightmares.

Miroku had so many nightmares.

The woman stopped singing, and smiled, leaning forward. He recognized the face, the face of the woman who had pulled him into her arms and protected him from the things that would cause him harm. The woman who had protected him with her own body, who encircled his head with her arms, who caressed his hair and whispered that everything would be alright, even through her tears.

She had placed her mask over his face, to shield him from the toxic air that surrounded them. It put the taste of metal on his tongue, and the salt of her sweat and her tears. It put the smell of purifying incense in his nose. Beyond the incense, he could smell her hair. Beyond the steel and salt, he could taste her mouth.

"I'm here, Miroku. Open your eyes."

Miroku opened his eyes.

Sango smiled, kneeling beside him, leaning close. He had forgotten how beautiful she was, as if his memory was incapable of properly recording her countenance, as he suspected no artist in the world was capable of capturing that which is Sango in a painting.

"What . . . what did you say?"

"I said, 'I'm here,' Houshi-sama," she said. "You've been dreaming so long, I didn't want you to forget which side of the dream you were on."

"Dreaming?" he said. "I can't remember . . . what happened?"

"You succumbed to poison, in the Oni's stomach," she said. "Inuyasha broke free, and we came here to Kaede's village. You've been out of it for days."

"Have you been here the whole time?"

Sango blushed. "Well, someone had to. And you're a nice guy to be around when you're unconscious and can't grope me."

Sango bit her lip after she said this. She had been worried for him.

Miroku cautiously took her hand.

"You don't have to worry about me so much. There are others who can care for me."

Sango slowly turned her hand over, intertwining her fingers with his.

"Don't talk that way."

"What way?"

"Like you think so little of me, that you would even suggest I could do something else when you're so ill." Her eyes wavered. "I've been worried sick about you for days, and you have the nerve to suggest I should have left you in the care of someone else?"

"You know I didn't mean it that way."

"Then what do you mean, Houshi-sama?"

"I mean . . ." He shook his head. "I don't know what I meant. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad I could see your face as soon as I awoke."

He brought her hand to his mouth, kissing it lightly.

"I'm glad you sang to me."

She pulled away her hand.

"Sang to you?"

"Am I mistaken? I thought I heard singing. Perhaps it was merely a dream."

"Just a dream," she said, but too quickly for him to believe her.

He smiled.

"Just a dream," he echoed.

Sango scratched her arm nervously, and only then Miroku realized she was not wearing her tekkou. He knew her to wear the gauntlets on her forearms at all times, taking them off only when bathing.

He realized why. Her forearms were covered in bandages.

"Sango."

"Eh?" She caught his glance, suddenly tucking her arms inside her sleeves.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she said. "Just a little burn from the shouki. Nothing more."

"Because of my foolishness," Miroku sighed. "Sango, I'm so sorry."

"I told you it wasn't that bad. It barely even hurts anymore."

He lowered his eyes.

"Houshi-sama."

She touched his cheek with her hand.

"Houshi-sama, you did the best you could."

"I thought I had him, Sango. I thought he had given me the perfect opportunity to use the Kazaana against him. I can't believe I could have been so foolish. It was his intent from the beginning to make me use the Kazaana and take in his hidden saimyoushou, so that I would be unable to protect you and Kagome. I fell for it so easily, Sango."

"Then you should be happy he has only fooled you once," she said.

This was probably a thing he should not dwell upon. His first meeting with Sango involved her attempting to kill Inuyasha. Not long after, she attempted to trade Tessaiga for Kohaku's life, though it seemed she came to her senses at the last minute.

Still, there were some secrets he found too difficult to keep.

"I had hoped, after spending so much of my life seeking out Naraku, studying his tactics, and fighting him with my friends, I would not fall so easily to his tricks. After all, his deceptions worked on you only when you were unaware of what Naraku truly was."

"It's a dangerous thing, to think you are beyond his tricks, Houshi-sama."

"I have to be, Sango." He clenched his fist. I have to be, or I'm going to die.

"The Kazaana," she said. "How much longer?"

"I don't know." He sighed. "My father . . ."

He trailed off. He didn't want her to worry about this sort of thing.

"Houshi-sama, please tell me."

"The Kazaana consumed my grandfather shortly before his sixtieth birthday. It consumed my father shortly before his fortieth birthday."

"You are . . . nineteen years old, are you not?"

"Yes. I don't know for certain the Kazaana is so predictable, but I left Mushin's temple at the age of fifteen, on the belief I had no more than five years to find and kill Naraku."

"Then, a year . . .?"

"I could be quite wrong, Sango. My father was a good fighter, and a great man, but Mushin has told me that my spiritual abilities surpassed his many years ago. It's possible that has bought me much more time."

"A year," she said again.

He touched her cheek.

"Kagome has asked me many times why I waited so long to propose to you. I never answered the question, but it has a lot to do with the fact that seeing you cry cuts me to pieces."

She shook her head, tears dripping down Miroku's palm.

"You'd rather have me cry in private, about the baka Houshi-sama who seems to care for me, but refuses to let me close to him, who smiles and lies, who hides his pain from me, like he doesn't trust me?" She squeezed his hand. "Hurt me with truth, Houshi-sama. Tell me your fears, and make me worry for you. It is painful, but all my life I've suffered for the things I love, and I never regret it. The only thing I cannot bear is you suffering in silence, and treating me like something fragile."

She pressed her cheek to his chest, sighing as she felt his hand stroke her hair.

"The Kazaana - if it breaks loose of your seal . . . will you know?"

"My father excused himself from dinner before the Kazaana consumed him. If my fate is the same, then I suppose I would feel the seal begin to break. I might know as early as a few hours before it happened."

"Then you'll tell me," she said. He wasn't certain if it was a question or a demand.

"I don't think that would be wise. I intend to meditate, to prepare for death. That will be the one point in my life when I would rather be alone than with you. I hope you understand that."

Sango, who once cradled the arrow-pierced body of her brother in her arms, and in some sense died with him, understood. She would not dare to dictate to a man the way he should spend the last moments of his life. Death was an intimate act, after all, and she was not offended that Miroku would want it to be a private affair.

"I understand," she said. "And I don't intend to distract you from your preparations. There is just one thing I would need to do then. It shouldn't take more than an hour, though that mostly depends on you."

"Sango?"

He felt her tense up in his arms.

"That's why . . . it's important," she said. "It's important you tell me. So I can do this one thing. This very important thing."

"I never wanted you to bear a child of desperation," he said. "Though I'm sure you know my desires, I have kept them in check. Keeping my family line alive is important to me, but not so important that it is worth leaving you alone with a child."

"Even if I am a widow, I would be happy to bear a child. A child to whom I can speak lovingly about his father." She pressed her forehead against his chest. "Though I would rather postpone motherhood until well after Naraku is defeated, if this is not possible, I will make due. Unless you think I am a foolish woman, Houshi-sama, you know I would not say these things unless I have made a very careful decision."

"I know you are not foolish, Sango. I would never have asked to marry a foolish woman."

In one fluid movement she outstretched her legs and pressed her lower body against his, still keeping her face beside the heart that beat with intensity commensurate to her touch.

"Your proposal to me . . . why then? To ask me those things, did you do so on impulse, or was it something you planned?"

She rose and fell atop his chest, two thoughtful breaths, and he told her.

"In my mind, I have been thinking seriously about sharing a life with you, for a very long time. I suppose it was the incident at Hakurei-zan, where I nearly lost you, that I realized how important you are to me, and how difficult it would be for me to part with you after we defeated Naraku. Still, I kept my silence, as I feared sharing this dream with you would bring us dangerously close. Because you are a good person, and care so deeply for your companions, it is already terrible enough for me to be your friend. I worry how you might react if this Kazaana claims me before our journey is done. Bad enough for you to mourn a friend. I would not want you to have to mourn a husband to be." He brushed a finger along her cheek. "I couldn't bear to let these eyes shed tears for me."

"You know they already have," she said. "And as you are not a foolish man, you know that you cannot make me feel or not feel things for you just by keeping me distant. You must know you cannot make me love another."

He cautiously sat up, and she raised herself on her hands, lying nearly across him. The look on his face was one she feared, eyes wide, face relaxed and smiling. He was begging for a slap, and would have received one, except that she knew her face held the same expression.

His hand touched her cheek. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his palm, the fingers that stroked upward, ran through her hair, around the edge of her ear, until the warmth of his hand broke contact. She opened her eyes as two fingers traced along her jawline, resting so lightly beneath her chin, coaxing her to tilt her head upward to him.

He leaned in, lips making slow, soft contact with hers.

Her mouth was just barely opened with an aborted gasp of astonishment, and she felt his tongue gently nudge hers, a contact more playful than aggressive, and quick to retreat. Something awoke in her, either sexual hunger or the instinctual taijiya response to an attack.

She needed to retaliate. To escalate. Here was prey. Wounded prey, perhaps. But that was his own bad luck.

Her hands were tight on his robes, his hair, as her mouth sought another drink from the passion of which a small taste could never satisfy. He responded as her legs propelled her weight into him, pushing him down to the hard floor, her leg hooking around his so that he could not escape.

His protest against her lips were soft, half-hearted, and quickly abandoned. As his lips moved against her, wetting the corners of her mouth, she drew his bottom lip between his and bit gently.

How often had she reviled men for their vile nature, for their tendency to turn the helm of their body over to their nether regions? How ironic this taijiya was so completely and so happily obeying the commands that issued forth from her twisting gut and fluttering chest?

Her senses were heightened, so she knew that Miroku moved with amazing speed, that his hands were moving over her body faster than she could register. One kneaded the flesh of her bottom as the other slid effortlessly between the folds of her yukata, snaking between the overlapping fold of her hadagi, and quickly claiming a breast.

That should have stopped her. She had grown somewhat used to his hand on her bottom, enough so that her striking him was no longer a reflex - indeed, she often spent a thoughtful second or half-second debating whether or not to allow him the touch, and though she invariably decided upon slapping him, it did not pass by her notice that she was doing so more out of habit than any actual annoyance. That is, Miroku's insistence made her grow used to his perverse caress, but she could not allow him to realize this.

But the few times he had groped her chest, she reacted immediately. It was more demeaning, she thought, as it was the sort of thing a man could do to a woman, but a woman could not do to a man. It was childish, and annoying.

But his hand did not stop her. His fingers traced gentle waving lines on the soft underside of her breast, his thumb carefully encircling the sensitive peak, and she found the sensation most pleasurable. She tried to hold it back, but a satisfied half-moan escaped from the back of her throat, eliciting a smile of satisfaction from Houshi-sama that she could not see but could feel against her own lips.

This encouraged him, as she hoped and feared it might, and he broke the kiss, brushing his lips against her cheek, seeking out the sensitive spots on her neck, filling her head with questions and confusion. How did he know? How did he know where to kiss, where to blow warm air, where to run warm, wet lines and spirals with his tongue, where to nip the skin gently with his teeth? For a fearful moment, she wondered if this was his standard routine for bedding women. But she was not naïve, and knew the things that aroused one woman would not arouse another. And she suspected she was unlike any woman Houshi-sama had known before. No, she decided, if this was scripted, it was a script written especially for her. She would have liked to think Houshi-sama's incessant groping was some sort of research to assist in preparing this evening, but that was probably giving him too much credit.

This evening. What did that entail? What was he intending to do? What was she intending to allow?

Somehow, he sensed her indecision. He paused his ministrations, resting his head on her shoulder, the shoulder from which her kosode had slipped off, and she felt him press the bridge of his nose against her clavicle, his nose touching the hollow of skin there, the breath against her skin slow but deep.

"There is a place, a special place, and though I have groped you many times, it is this one place even in my most perverse moments I would not dream of sullying with my foul touch. I want you to know - I want you to remember - that though we may have moments like this again - and I so sincerely hope we have moments like this again - that your body has always been a sacred thing to me, and though I may grope you, and infuriate you, I will never lose control of myself, and I will never threaten your sacred places."

He lifted his head, brushing his cheek against hers.

"I don't want to be your lover, Sango. I wanted this thing from many women, but never from you. I want to be your husband. I want you to know how precious you are to me, so precious that I would gladly forgo the pleasant things, the sexual things that I so often desired from other women, just to be by your side. You are the only one so worthwhile to me, and I know that you are the first and last woman I shall ever love. But it's not enough to tell you this. I must show you this, by quelling my sexual desire, by showing you I can not only be monogamous, but celibate as well."

"It is difficult, Houshi-sama, is it not?" she whispered in his ear. "Because you are a complete pervert?"

A soft burst of warm air lifted her hair, a quick laugh he tried to hide.

"It is most difficult. But it is well worth it, if my dedication brings Sango even the slightest bit of happiness."

"I don't want to be your lover either, Houshi-sama. I want to be your wife. But I expect we will both live long, and have many days of happiness. Why not borrow one of those days, and live it now?"

She felt his hands gently stroke her lower back.

"There are of course some things we cannot do," she said, softly. "But if you have in mind some gentle things, I am your wife for this moment. I place my body in your hands, in trust that you may bring me pleasure. And I would gladly do the same for you."

She cautiously took his right hand in her own.

"For this evening, and only this evening, until a moment like this comes again, I give this hand permission. Permission to touch me in the places Houshi-sama would not otherwise touch."

"And this hand?" he asked softly, brushing the knuckles of his left hand against her cheek.

"That hand as well."

He leaned forward, kissing her, speaking quick words between each kiss.

"And this mouth, Sango? These lips? This tongue?"

She shivered, murmuring her assents into his mouth as he pressed his chest against her, lowering her to the floor, his right hand supporting her back and his left hand slowly ascending her leg.

Her breathing quickened; his left hand worked her clothes off her shoulders, then cupped a naked breast, then teased the nipple between his fingers, and all the while he slowly, so slowly, his right hand rolled up her skirts - her ankle-length mobakama and kosode, and then her knee-length hadagi, raising them up above the black kyahan that covered her lower legs, his fingers stroking her naked knees, and naked thighs, and when she arched her back he used both hands to push her clothes and underclothes past her buttocks and bunch them at her waist.

Her hands caressed his, slipping into the sleeves of his robes, stroking the muscles of his arms, and he smiled.

"Please show me, Sango," he whispered, stroking one hand along her thigh, and between her knees.

The blush across her cheeks spoke of her embarrassment, that she would spread her legs so obscenely, inviting someone to stare at - or even touch! - the place between, but the firm intent in her eyes, and her inquisitively-arched eyebrows, spoke of her challenge. Let's see what you can do, Houshi-sama.

She did not realize how incredibly wet she was until he touched her, and his fingers slipped effortlessly between slickened labia, gently spreading her flesh, moving upward to rub her clitoris, and moving downward to slip one finger inside her, slowly and carefully and not very deep at first, and each action made her moan in anticipation of the next.

He brought his lips to hers, kisses of thanksgiving, she suspected, and he said to her, "It would make no difference if it were not the case, because I love you and would serve you no matter what. But nothing I could have imagined - and believe me, Sango, I have done a lot of imagining - nothing could be more beautiful than what you have shown me."

Her arms pulled him close, her mouth planting kisses along his neck.

"You are the most beautiful woman I know," he said, "and I think you should also know your womanhood is magnificent."

She could not help but laugh, but he persisted anyway.

"I am transfixed," he said, and he slipped out of her arms and moved down her body.

"And so I cannot resist," he said, and she felt his hands slip under her buttocks, and when she felt something delightfully warm and wet between her legs she gasped in shock at the realization it was Houshi-sama's tongue.

A shout of protest, that this was too much, too soon, died in her throat as he drew her clitoris into his mouth and she surrendered to Houshi-sama's judgement. He had kissed her mouth so skillfully, but kissing her between her legs was where he proved himself a master at the craft. He worked slowly, and then fast, and then slow again, teasing her, making her grasp his head between her hands, and she held his face there, and moved her hips against him. Something inside her tightened, a coiled-up spring she felt in her toes, in her legs, in her thighs, and between her legs she was paper accepting the ink-strokes of a master calligrapher.

When she was nearly there, she pushed him away, sitting up, because she wanted to see his face, she wanted him to see her face, when the time came. He was surprised, and she tasted his surprise, which did nothing to break the oncoming wave of pleasure that was quickly advancing. His surprise was enough that nearly a half-second passed where his hands were suspended midair, in confusion, and she could not tolerate this, immediately taking his slick left hand and pressing it between her legs.

Two of his fingers slipped inside her, very deep inside her, and he gestured 'come hither' and she came hither, and when she came, she broke the kiss, pressed her face to his shoulder and bit, bit through the robes, through his skin, and she hoped the material muffled her satisfaction, and the way she said "Houshi-sama!" with a drawn-out "ou" that went from moan to scream and back again, and the way she said it again, like a prayer, and the way she said it several more times, like a mantra.

For several minutes, she was completely helpless, unable to move, unable to think. Her body barely registered Miroku rearranging her clothes, pushing her skirts back down her legs, pulling her kosode back onto her shoulders, stroking her hair to comb out the tangles made by her writhing on the floor.

She felt his arousal against her back, though she believed he pulled her into his lap in such a way to attempt to hide such a thing. In the back of her mind, she felt the need to pleasure him as he pleasured her, but the contentment still moved throughout her, a wave that started at the tips of her toes and slid all the way up to her neck and back again, and she wanted to feel every moment of it.

She was nearly ready to apologize, or at least show that she was not unaware of his discomfort and selflessness, but as she opened her mouth to speak he murmured something in her ear.

"Seek not in the wide world to find a place to live, but where you chance to rest, call that your home."

She blinked, a feeling of warmth came to her as he tugged at the thread of her memory.

"Monarchs may keep their palaces of jade," she said, "for in a leafy cottage two can sleep." She laughed softly. "Genji Monogatari. You've read it?"

"I spent most of my childhood reading Chinese texts and sutras, but I managed to get some lighter reading in when Mushin was too drunk to supervise my education. Which was, I recall, rather often. I remember admiring Genji's dedication."

"My mother had nine chapters, which she handed down to me when I was still too young to read," she said. "They were a gift to my great-great-grandparents, from a noblewoman, and my mother treasured them. I read them several times, and always wanted to find more of the story, but I was never successful."

"I've only found three or four. I think there are at least fifty, but there may be only a few people in the world who have the entire collection."

"The book is still in the hall of records, in the village. I haven't thought about it until now. I hope they weren't too badly damaged in the attack. I wish I had thought to check that the last time we were there."

"A small outbuilding, near the shrine, with cubbyholes, and about twenty or thirty scrolls," Miroku said.

"That's it."

"I noticed them when we swept the village for survivors, and failing to find any, buried and prayed for the rest. I did not have time to inspect anything, but they seemed in good condition from what I saw."

She brushed her cheek against his shoulder.

"I'm glad," she said. "Later, when Naraku is no more, we can go there and retrieve them."

"And bring them where, Sango?"

"To our new home, wherever that will be."

"Wherever we choose to have children together," he said.

She turned to him, kissing him softly.

"You know, Houshi-sama, as wonderful as that was, my satisfaction is not complete yet."

"Oh?"

Her hands slipped inside his robes and found him hard.

"How could I be satisfied knowing that I haven't yet brought you the same pleasure that you have given to me?"

She spread open his robes, laying kisses down his naked chest, working her way to the tented white loincloth and slipping his erection out of it. She couldn't say to him the things she wanted to, as the words were not there, and she could not play the part of someone who was so familiar with men that she could compliment him in the way she would have liked. But it was warm and firm and pleasing to look at, and to touch. She wondered if he had ever thought of her, or looked at her, and become hard as he was now. When, and how often? On the few times she had caught him spying on her bathing? On the many times she had not caught him? Did he sometimes pleasure himself when he thought of her? Did he know she sometimes pleasured herself when she thought of him?

"Sango," he whispered, "it's not necessary..."

She stroked his length, and he moaned softly.

"It seems quite necessary to me, Houshi-sama," she smirked.

She slid down his body, and kissed his thigh.

"Don't be afraid to tell me what to do," she said. She hoped her enthusiasm was a sufficient substitute for experience, and this was indeed the case.

It was not the last day they would borrow a day of married life and live it in the now. It was not the last time that they would lie together, and do all the things except the one thing. Before they could do the one thing, many trials remained. There would be iron and blood; there would be sweat and tears. But beyond the steel and salt, there was a man and a woman, two parts of a whole, the intimacy, the promise, and the life they shared. Amidst days of horror were hours of pleasure, given selflessly, accepted graciously. Amidst countless attempts to strike down Naraku, there was the future, and the family they would make.

THE END


	3. A Fool's Errand

  
**A** **F** **ool's** **E** **rrand**

**by Scribe Figaro**

It is a fool's errand to try to enumerate all the things that draw me to you, that bind me to you, and if I should try I worry that I might imply some artificial order of importance to your aspects, or in failing to mention some wonderful thing about you, I may imply that particular thing is not significant.

If I should make a list like this, you should realize that it would be brief, truncated, wholly insufficient, bearing only superficial resemblance to my feelings. It is not that this list is too long to commit to paper. It is that this list changes, moment to moment, as you reveal more of yourself to me, and I learn more about myself through you.

I did not fall in love with you. It is not something that _happened_. I _am_ falling in love with you. Over and over, ever day, I fall in love with you, again and again. Yesterday, it was some offhand comment you made, an expertly-delivered verbal checkmate, that touched my heart, that forced me to distract you from the grain you were milling, to stifle you with kisses, and to only come to my senses at the sound of the stone mill-wheel rolling off the edge of the floor, striking the packed dirt firepit with an earthy thunk, and finding us both sprawled on the floor, the stone mill overturned, grain spilled on the floor. To one side of us, our children - the twins old enough to be used to this sort of thing, our son still curious but kept in line by his sisters. To the other side, Inuyasha and Kagome-sama, scandalized. Ah, but they should be used to this too.

We sit up, and you tighten the fold of your _yukata_ across your chest, as somehow you were exposing more cleavage than appropriate in mixed company. You blush lovely, avoiding my eyes - I think perhaps we would be on the floor again if you didn't - and say “It's okay, we're married” although I'm not sure to whom. And you glance at our children, with a reassuring and motherly smile - the twins are old enough to figure out when to find somewhere else to be, and even with Inuasha- _ojichan_ and Kagome- _obachan_ in the room they were starting to gather their things, intending to take our son to play outside, to catch fireflies in the twilight.

Inuyasha and Kagome-sama were doing no such thing, of course. Have you noticed their protests about such displays are completely silent until after we have stopped ourselves? Have you ever thought about continuing such a display, just to see how long it would take, what it would take, for one of them to demand we stop?

Ah, but they spied on our proposal, didn't they? That and every other moment we were alone, they were there, in some hiding spot. Listening. Watching. Kagome-sama's time in the modern era, those three years she was required to complete her obligations in that era, wasn't that the first time we didn't have to worry about our privacy?

I think Inuyasha would be embarrassed enough to leave us, if he was alone. But not Kagome-sama. I think she wants to watch. I think her investment in us - her completely unnecessary attempts at matchmaking - might even lead her to believe she deserves a front seat at a matrimonial performance. I think she would never admit to this, but given the opportunity, I think she would sit still and silent while we conceived our next child. Unfortunately for her, we're not going to give her that opportunity, are we?

I think you feel the same way. I nearly missed the glance you shot Kagome-sama, as I carefully poked at the ashes of the fire to extricate the stone mill-wheel.

_Jealous?_

We tried our best to restrain ourselves through that visit. But Inuyasha and Kagome-sama wouldn't leave, would they? After about twenty minutes, when you had finished milling the grain for the week, you became angry at me, complaining about the grain I had spilled, how we didn't have enough for the week now, how I better go and get next week's supply from the village storehouse, right now.

The bucket we use to measure grain and the bucket we use to measure rice are right next to each other, and completely different sizes, and I of course picked up the wrong one, an extremely foolish mistake for a man who has lived in this home for five years.

I can only imagine your complaints of exasperation when you realized this, and picked up the correct bucket, and apologized to our guests.

Those members of the village who know their letters and numbers, and can record their transactions in the storekeeper's ledger, have special permission to take their household allowances without the storekeeper's supervision, so it is not particularly strange for you to send me to the storehouse at this late hour, when it would be unattended. Kagome had this privilege as well, so she would not be particularly suspicious at either one of us collecting our grain ration at such a late hour, and perhaps would be further thrown off at your apparent anger and frustration with me.

I was waiting for not much more than a minute when you slipped into the door. It was fully night time now, and near the roofline of the storeroom were tall wooden slat windows, casting bars of soft white moonlight over the floor, over the bundles of straw that lined the walls, over the stacked woven bundles of grain and rice that ran up and down the length of the building in narrow rows.

The bucket you held made a hollow rattle as you dropped it against the ground, beside the open door, and you walked right past me, along the narrow shaft of moonlight the door cast, ending at a waist-high rice bundle at the end of one row of the storehouse, and there you stopped, and gripped your _yukata_ at the knees, and pulled the fabric up. The moonlight illuminated your muscular calves, your smooth thighs, and my breath caught, as it always does, when you bunched your clothes at your waist and revealed to me your beautiful, naked bottom.

I would say “bottom,” because even at this point there is some sort of innocence about you; your nudity fascinates me in an artistic sense, which is to say, I can be happy to stand here, and watch you undress, and appreciate your form. At this stage I have not yet taken leave of my senses.

But you accomplish this in a single gesture. Naked from the waist down, you lean forward, and place your hands on the rice bundle before you, spread your feet slightly, and now you are bent over, and your backside is in the air. And now it is not your “bottom” any more. It is your round, beautiful, tight, muscular _ass_ , and you are presenting it to me. It takes me about ten seconds to undress - my _kesa_ I do not have time to fold properly, but I have the sense to place it on a shelf so it does not get dirty; my _koromo_ and undershirt over my shoulders and open down the front; the flap of my loincloth pulled out of the waistband and hanging uselessly down my backside.

I am hard for you now, and I announce this by placing myself between your thighs. The sparse, trimmed hair of your mound scratches my cock, although not in an unpleasant way. You reach back with one hand to feel me, to guide me into you. Your fingers spread your labia, and a line of wet heat touches the length of my cock. I draw back a little, and the head of my cock moves down your mound, and over your clitoris, and now it slips between your folds, into this valley of _you_ , and as I move along the length of your warmth, as I cross the entrance into you, your hand gently pushes my cock upward, and I slip into you just a little bit, and you are so wet, and I am so hard, and I press all of myself into you.

We make love sometimes, but not this time. We did not kiss, we did not grope. Our foreplay was in our imagination, our anticipation, our want. At this time, we are fucking. I am taking you from behind, and I am taking you hard.

I want to kiss you. I want to undress you further. I want your breasts. I know you want to kiss me, to touch me, to feel some portion of me other than my hands on your hips, my thighs against your thighs, my cock inside you. But there is no time for that. Only thrusting. Only inarticulate moans. We are not making love. We are fucking.

Our coitus is not lengthy. It is not intended to be. Not because we have guests we must return to, although that is part of it. It has been nearly half an hour since I spilled the grain, held you down and kissed you, and you and I have been building toward climax that entire time. You exercise some discretion in your orgasm, crying out inarticulate words through clenched teeth. If you were completely silent - and I am very glad you never are - I would still know your climax, by the sudden heat inside you, by the way you tighten around me, by the way your body orders my body to release inside you.

I am relieved, as the struggle to restrain myself had become nearly impossible. Knowing I have satisfied you, feeling that sense of accomplishment, I surrender, I empty myself inside you, accentuating my orgasm with rapid, disorganized, involuntary thrusts. I want to fill you, to flood you, to leave a part of myself in the deepest reaches of you.

We remain that way, and I soften inside you, and only when it becomes clear that I am too deep, and you are too tight, for me to slip out of you, do you carefully move forward, moaning as my semierect cock slips through the tight grip of your body.

You turn to me, murmur your satisfaction, place your arms around me, and kiss me. You tell me how hard I was, how deep I was. I tell you how wet you were, how tight you were. We kiss for a few moments more, and I take this opportunity to correct a previous omission, and I loosen your _yukata_ and cup your breasts.

When we realize we can delay no further, we clean ourselves up, and dress, and collect the grain. We return, and have some more drinks with our friends, and we talk about the adventures we've had, and all the while my cock is wet with your arousal, and your vagina is filled with my cum, and when our guests leave some hours later, when our children have been put to bed, we kiss, and we grope, and when you are atop me you guide me into you again, and this time we are making love.

END


	4. Hunger

  


**Hunger**

**by Scribe Figaro**

I find you in the library of the _taijiya_ village, several manuscripts spread before you. It had been several days since you came here, intent on collecting _taijiya_ histories to supplement the education of our children. I could see your travelling bag half-filled with scrolls. Clearly, your work was not finished, but I must insist you take a break.

You greet me, “ _Anata_ ” this time - “Houshi-sama” was reserved for fits of pique; perhaps you will call me that when you realize my intent to distract you. I tell you I decided to bring you home to our village so you don't have to return alone. You remind me that you didn't intend to return for another three days. I tell you I couldn't wait.

We kiss in the doorway, and you tell me about the things you have read, and we talk a little about the history of your village. As you stand and skim the cubby-holes for one scroll or another, I press myself against you, brush aside your hair, and kiss the back of your neck.

You murmur something about distracting you, and I tug at the knot at the back of your waist. Your hands grip the edges of the bookcase, and I guide your green _mobakama_ down your legs to pool at your bare feet.

You turn to me, and say something about wasting no time, and we kiss again. I shrug out of my _kesa_ , my _koromo_ , and my robes fall to the floor. I pull open your _yukata_ , spilling out your breasts, and I suckle as you cradle my head.

There is one thing that calls to me, one thing I desire, one thing I hunger for above all else. Something I could not survive a week without. I am on my knees before you, Sango, let me worship you.

The knot of your _obi_ dissolves in my hands, the red cord slips loose of your waist, I pull it away from you, and your _yukata_ spreads before me, and inches from my face is your glory, the source of my fascination, my need, my insatiable hunger.

It is absolute tragedy you cannot see this part of you as I see it, that you cannot understand the magnificence of you. This place where your thighs meet astounds me in every aspect. The way your thighs frame you so gracefully. The contrast of your dark hair on the white curve of your mound. The way these things hint at the indescribable treasure between your legs.

I kiss you, on either thigh, and just below your navel, and I kiss your mound, and inhale the scent of you, feminine, rustic, _you_. It is incense of this temple, this shrine; what is this part of you if not a gateway, a place that binds spirit to earth? Three times you have used this part of you to create life; even one such miracle would have put the Imperial Palace in Kyoto to shame.

Your clothing is the outermost wall to this temple, Sango, and now I am on the temple grounds, before the first gate, the gate of your thighs, and here I prostrate myself, and unworthy as I am, here I beg you for entrance. Spread your legs for me, Sango, and show me your shrine, your source, your special place.

There is a roof beam just above your head, you grip it as I slip my left hand beneath your right knee and raise that foot off the floor. Your ankle finds a shelf behind you and you hold your foot there. You are spread open before me, and I am starving.

I kiss you, I trail kisses up and down your vulva. It is so soft, and so smooth. Here you are a flower at night, two beautiful petals close you up and protect the miraculous flesh beneath. I feel wetness on my lips, the beautiful wetness that begins to seep from the place where those petals meet. Your arousal has made this part of you ready for me; your labia have begun to spread, and your clitoris has begun to poke through.

I want to spread you open with my fingers, to see this most sacred part of you, but more than that, I want to taste you. And I bring my mouth to you, touch my tongue to you, and slip my tongue between your folds.

My god, the taste of you. It is beyond words, beyond language. You are mulled wine, you are spices from lands distant and forgotten. Falling snow and falling leaves, summer storms and spring rains. Every season, every moment, every good thing that could be imagined. How can I do anything but to suck your flesh into my mouth, and probe your recesses with my tongue?

I am so thankful this pleasures you; I would beg for this even if it didn't. Indeed, all I am doing is tasting this most delicious part of you, sucking on the parts of you I most want to suck, finding the texture of your clitoris and inner labia pleasurable against my lips and tongue. And throughout this, your wetness flows constantly, and fills my mouth, and I drink you, Sango. This part of you is a goblet that overflows with your essence, one I am happy to empty. I swallow the waters of your arousal, I drink your pleasure.

Yes, roll your hips against me, grind yourself against me. Free one hand to grip my hair, and hold me against you, and I will grip your buttocks with my hands. Ride my tongue, mount my face, do whatever you must, just don't deny me the taste of your pleasure.

Your moans tell me that you are nearly there. My hands tighten on your buttocks. I will not be removed from this place. I will not be denied my reward. Cum for me, Sango. Cum hard. Cum with my mouth, against my mouth, in my mouth. Cum with my tongue inside you.

And I am rewarded, for as you cry out, your body quivers against me, and you cum wet. A burst of your arousal, clenched and squeezed from recesses I could not reach, spills into my mouth. This is the taste of your orgasm, the taste of my success.

I politely wipe my face on my bare arm, and I stand before you. You press against me, your stiff nipples brushing against my chest.

“ _Anata_ ,” you say to me, and you unfasten my loincloth, and find me rock hard. You grip me, possess me.

“Let's put this where it belongs, _ne_?”

You guide me to the floor, lower yourself onto me, guide me into you. You are an expert at riding me, rolling your hips as you move, making me feel all of you. I reach up and cup your breasts.

You lean forward, and your mouth touches mine, and we kiss, and we breathe each other's breath. You can read me well, you know your orgasm has pushed me to the edge of my self-control. You know I am only holding back for your benefit. You know how to completely dismantle my effort.

“Cum,” you say to me. “Cum inside me.” Your smile is mischievous. “You're fucking me so hard.” You see my face tighten, hear the groan building in the back of my throat. “Give it to me. I need it. Anata, Houshi-sama, Miroku.”

“Ugh…I…I…”

“All your cum,” you hiss. You're not even playing fair anymore. “All the way up inside me. So it stays in me. All night. All tomorrow. I need it. Come on. Cum inside me.”

My eyes close, my mouth opens, a soundless cry, and I lose it, absolutely lose it, and you take me, take all of me.

Our marriage, our years together, have given me full confidence in our future, and that worrying aspect that you might someday realize how inadequate I am for a woman such as yourself has gone - you have built me up to be someone you think is good enough for you, and I can do nothing but accept this.

I think I am never so confident as I am in moments like these. I don't think you appreciate how meaningful your smile is at times like this, how powerful this gesture of acceptance is to me.

I smile to myself after we gather ourselves, as I help you organize these scrolls, at the perfect innocence we display in this place we have made our own with our love.

END


	5. Wedding Night #9

Miroku carefully slid the door closed, and slipped the bit of wood into the latch.  He knew that not even Inuyasha was naive enough to disturb them, not on this of all nights, but it seemed best to take precautions.

He turned to his bride, who was already unfastening her wedding dress, a yukata of simple materials but elaborate patterns - green fabric with gold boomerangs and red fringe; the tireless and secret work of the elder women of the village, given to her sometime past sunrise today.  

Miroku had not been with her this morning; he was with Kaede, making final arrangements for the day’s activities.  First, the wedding ceremony.  Next, the celebration of the lives of Kikyou and Kagome.  No funerals, for Kikyou’s time had passed long ago, and Kagome’s time had not even begun.  Miroku could not help but be amused at the irony, that Kagome was the true Maitreya, the Buddha of the Future.  Her absence made the miracle of her journey to them all the more mystic; the villages were all but certain that she would return soon, if only they prayed hard enough, and lived good enough lives, and for all his knowledge of the Dharma, Miroku himself could not argue otherwise.

Finally, as the sun descended, the torches were lit, the cooking-fires stoked, and wine flowed freely.  When a group of teenage girls dragged Sango away to gather her blessings and courtship advice, Shippou hopped on Miroku’s shoulder and shared the story he had only barely been able to keep to himself for so many hours.

Sango had cried when the elder women delivered her the dress, which was wrapped so delicately in the finest pink paper and gold thread.  When she unwrapped the package and admired it, she commented on how it could not be possible even an army of seamstresses could have made such a garment in the week or so between their wedding announcement and the actual day.  She cried even harder when the elders admitted that they completed it months ago; they began the work the very day news of our engagement got to them through Kagome and Kaede.  And, Shippou finished, Sango cried hardest of all when, after bowing and thanking the women, they bowed even lower, and apologized for their impertinence, but nonetheless begged Sango the honor of calling her their adopted daughter, so that they may formalize the love they have for her, and treat her as one of their own.

Every face, every sleeve, was wet with tears by the end of it.  Tears of joy soon became tears of laughter, however, when some woman of particular wit felt the need to announce that they would have been equally happy to give her this dress if she had married someone better than that lecherous monk.

Shippou grinned at this, clearly his favorite part of the story.  Miroku rolled his shoulder and knocked off Shippou’s grip, sending him tumbling to the ground, whereupon he went bounding off laughing.

Sango’s wedding dress - the garment that lent physical proof of her inclusion in Kaede’s village - was now hung up on a pole at the end of the house, at the corner where she kept her clothes and makeup.  She crossed her arms, and took in a breath.  The white under-kosode was very loose, and left very much to the imagination, but thankfully, Miroku was very imaginative.

He suddenly found himself nervously scratching the back of his head.  Was this really going to happen?  Inuyasha had returned a week ago, and assured them Kagome was safe in her own world, but the 500 years between them were no smaller than the distance between Earth and Heaven.  Further, while Kohaku was alive, and healing, his pain was extraordinary, and far beyond what Sango could hope to relieve, even with her sincere forgiveness.

Was she really in shape for this?

Was _he_?

Miroku steeled himself.  Kicking off his sandals, he approached her, pressing his chest to her back, and pulling her into his arms.  She murmured softly, placing her hands upon his, and allowed him to lay soft kisses on his neck.

Emboldened, he pulled at her collar, exposing the skin of her shoulder to his kisses.

“Wait,” she gasped.

He stiffened instantly, releasing her.  She turned to him, and grasped his sleeve with one hand, preventing him from stepping away.

“Sango.  I’m sorry, I thought you wanted-”

“Don’t apologize.  I just - if I let you keep doing that …”  She looked down, in momentary thought, and returned his gaze.

“Houshi-sama.  May I ask something strange?”

“Of course, Sango”

“I worry it’s inappropriate.  No, in fact, I’m sure it’s inappropriate…”

“Ask me anything, Sango, and I will do it without a moment’s hesitation.”

“If … if you truly mean that …”  

She clasped her fingers together, eyes flitting to some spot far to his right, and then his left, and back.  A most lovely blush formed on her cheeks.

“Your clothes,” she said.

“My clothes?”

She nodded.

He could not resist teasing her.

“You’re asking me to put on more clothing?”

This finally got him eye contact, with some fire behind it.  He is not sure if he flinched.

“No, you idiot.”

She crossed her arms, set her jaw.  The Taijiya Warrior he married asserted herself in exactly the way he had hoped.

“Six times I’ve caught you watching me while I bathed.  And many more times I did not catch you, I’m sure.  A debt is owed, don’t you agree?”

“That seems reasonable, yes.”

“Good.  As we are married, Houshi-sama, it is acceptable for me to see you in a state of undress.”

She smiled.

“So.  Houshi-sama.  Undress.”

“At once, Sango.”

He unfastened his garments, folding and hanging them as quickly as he was able, and when he was naked, he stood before her, shoulders square, arms to his side.

He was very pleased that his nudity flustered her so; it was nearly a minute of her alternating between a stern, commanding stare, and hands clasping her mouth and reddened cheeks.  He stood silently as she gathered her composure and found the will to actually approach him.

She walked around him, cautiously extending fingers along his back, tracing from shoulder to shoulder.  Realizing he would actually stand still for her - for a while, anyway - she gently kissed the back of his neck, drawing fingers into his hair and then down to his shoulders.  With gentle touch and the occasional kiss and nuzzle, she worked her way down to his waist.  She chuckled softly at the way he started when she, without warning, placed both hands on his bottom and grasped firmly.

“I owe you at least a hundred more of those, Miroku,” she said.

She continued on to his thighs, finding him ticklish at the back of his knees, finding the muscles of his legs taught and warm beneath her fingers.  Scooting around him, she began to work up his thighs and knees again.  He held his breath for a moment as her hands passed over the juncture of his thighs - it seems she was not ready to touch him there yet, but he could not hide his anticipation of that touch, and that seemed to please her.  Now safely north of his waist, she again nuzzled him, his abdomen and chest, and having made her way back to his face she kissed him.

He brought his hands to her back, so desperate to return her touch.

“Not yet,” she said, and she took him by the wrists and drew them back to his sides.

“Do you not like it when I touch you, Sango?”

He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice, but she picked up on it, and apparently realized she needed to be much more clear with him.

“Absolutely not, Miroku.  The problem is I like it too much.  I’d be a puddle on the floor if I let you continue touching me, and I want that to wait a little bit, because there’s something more important I want to do.”

“Oh?  And what is that, Sango?”

“I know you.  I know you planned out this evening, in some great detail, and although you left some room for improvisation you had several clear objectives.  First, you were going to take the lead, and show me all the mysteries of my own body.  You were going to - if teasingly - embarrass me by your attentions on my private places, and by how readily my body responds to you.  And finally, before I fully realized what you were doing to me, you were going to surprise me with my own climax, and I was going to see that smug expression on your face, so very pleased that my sex answers to you more readily than it answers to me.  And when you have succeeded in this, and I am a maddened with desire for you, you will take me here, on the floor of this hut, and that will be the conception of our first child together.”

He thinks he blushed at that.  Cocking his head to one side in thought, he  turned to her.

“Those are all excellent ideas,” he said, “so of course I’ll say they are mine.”

She laughed.

“I take it then, Sango, that the acts you just described are not acceptable to you?”

“Oh no, perfectly acceptable.  I look forward to them.  Indeed, my honor as a woman relies on me being such a blushing bride, swooning to your attentions.  And that I will be, very soon, I promise.”

She smiled.

“But my honor as a Taijiya demands that I do all of these things to you first.”

“Sango?”

She kissed him, deep this time, tongue stroking his.

“Will you allow this, Miroku?  Will you let me direct the first act of our wedding night?”

“That … such a thing is quite enticing, Sango.  But if you ask me to put my own pleasure before your own…”

“That is exactly what I ask, Miroku.”

She lay her hands on his chest, and fixed her eyes on his as she traced her fingers down his body.

In an instant, he had no strength in his legs, and he lay on the ground, incoherent.


End file.
